2.16.2010

El herbolario / José Antonio Ramos Sucre

The Herbalist

The mole and the lynx were the ministers of my secret wisdom. They had followed me when I established myself in a naked landscape. A few white birds were lamenting the fate of Euphorion, the one with wings of fire, and they attributed it to an early burn out, to a desire for danger. The mole and the lynx were helping me discover the future by means of dancing flames and an effusion of wine, of somber purple. I was telling them about the privilege of tracking the steps of the invisible angel of death. I wandered the earth, suffering the shouting and stones of the multitude. I didn’t gain my neighbors’ affection by illuminating for them the subterranean waters in a lime desert. A maiden abstained from censuring my ridiculous suit, a present from Klingsor, the infallible wizard. I saved her from an inveterate illness, from her constant tears. A specter had blown on her face and I brought her back to health with the help of disciplined and fragrant dittany flowers, a lenitive for grief.